Chapter 9
Max
Pain is usually loud. It’s a scream in the muscles, a throb in the temples, a sharp stab in the joints. But tonight, the pain was a dull, rhythmic thrumming at the base of my skull, synchronized perfectly with the bass shaking the floorboards of The Hive.
The victory party was in full swing.
It was a sensory nightmare. The air was a toxic soup of cheap beer, body spray, and sweat. The lights were flashing strobes that cut the darkness into jagged slices. Bodies writhed against bodies, a sea of grinding hips and raised hands.
I was sitting on the arm of the battered leather sofa in the corner, holding a red solo cup filled with water that I was pretending was vodka.
"Warden! You’re a legend!" A freshman defenseman—Miller, maybe?—slapped my shoulder. "That save in the second? Sick. Absolutely sick."
"Thanks," I muttered, not looking at him. My head pounded with the impact of his hand.
Don't wince. Don't close your eyes. Look normal.
Imogen’s voice was in my head, coaching me. Smile. Nod. Be the hero.
I scanned the room. I wasn't looking for teammates. I wasn't looking for girls. I was looking for the platinum blonde head that I had lost track of ten minutes ago when Jinx dragged her off to play beer pong.
There.
She was by the makeshift bar in the kitchen, surrounded by three guys from the lacrosse team. She was still wearing my jersey. It hung off one shoulder, exposing the strap of a black tank top underneath. She was laughing, her head thrown back, the column of her throat exposed.
One of the lacrosse players—a tall guy with a backward hat—leaned in close. He said something near her ear. He put a hand on her waist, right over the number 30. My number.
The thrumming in my head spiked into a roar.
It wasn't rational. It wasn't polite. It was pure, unadulterated territorial aggression.
I stood up. The room tilted slightly—a symptom I shoved into a mental box labeled 'Deal With Later'—and started walking.
I moved through the crowd like a shark through a school of minnows. People got out of my way. Maybe it was my size. Maybe it was the look on my face.
I reached the kitchen just as the lacrosse player—Brad? Chad?—started to slide his hand lower on her hip.
"Imogen," I said. My voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the noise like a blade.
She spun around. Her eyes were bright, a little glossy, but when they landed on me, they sharpened. She scanned my face instantly—checking the pupils, checking the tension.
"Hey," she smiled, stepping away from the guy. "I was just telling Brad here about the offsides rule. He seems confused."
"I know the offsides rule," Brad-Chad protested, annoyed at the interruption. He looked at me, puffed out his chest a little. "We were having a conversation, Vane. Do you mind?"
I looked at him. I looked at his hand, which was now hovering in the air where Imogen’s waist used to be.
"I do mind," I said calmly. "Because that’s my jersey. And by extension, the girl inside it is my problem."
"She doesn't look like a problem," the guy sneered. "She looks like she's having fun."
"She's tired," I said, stepping between them. I used my height, blocking his view of her completely. "And we're leaving."
"I didn't hear her say she wanted to leave," he challenged.
I leaned in. I let the exhaustion drop for a second, replaced by the sheer menace of a guy who stops 100mph rubber bullets for a living.
"You're not listening," I said softly. "Walk away. Before I make you."
The guy blinked. He looked at my clenched fists. He looked at the scar over my eye. He did the math.
"Whatever, man," he muttered, backing off. "She's crazy anyway."
He disappeared into the crowd.
I turned to Imogen.
"Ready?" I asked.
She looked up at me, searching my face. She saw the tightness around my eyes. She saw the way I was holding myself rigid to keep from swaying.
"Yeah," she whispered, slipping her hand into mine. "Get me out of here. The beer smells like regret."
I squeezed her hand. An anchor.
"Let's go."
The cold air outside was a benediction.
It hit my face, shocking the headache into a temporary remission. The snow was falling softly, muffling the world.
We walked to my truck in silence. The crunch of boots on snow was the only sound.
I unlocked the doors. We climbed in.
The cab was freezing. I started the engine, blasting the heat.
I didn't put it in gear immediately. I just sat there, gripping the steering wheel, closing my eyes.
" dizzy?" Imogen asked softly.
"A little," I admitted. I didn't open my eyes. "The strobe lights were a mistake."
"Here."
I felt her move. Her cool hands touched my temples. She started to rub, slow circular motions.
"Breathe, Max," she murmured.
I leaned into her touch. It was grounding. It was the only thing that felt real.
"I need to pass that test tomorrow," I rasped. "I have to be clear."
"You will be," she said confidently. "We'll go home. We'll turn off the lights. I'll make you drink water until you float away. You'll sleep."
"And you?" I opened my eyes to look at her.
She was watching me with an expression I couldn't decipher. It was soft. Concerned. And hungry.
"I'll be there," she said. "Watching you sleep. Like a creepy vampire."
I huffed a laugh. It hurt my head, but it was worth it.
"Let's go home," I said.
The drive was short. We didn't talk. We didn't need to. The silence wasn't empty anymore. It was filled with the knowledge of what we were doing. We were conspiring. We were partnering.
We pulled into the garage. The elevator ride up was tense. The air felt thick, charged with static.
We walked into the apartment.
It was dark. Quiet. My sanctuary.
I dropped my keys in the bowl. Clink.
I turned to lock the door. Click.
"Max," Imogen said.
I turned around.
She was standing in the middle of the living room. She had kicked off her boots. She was still wearing the jersey.
"You're hurt," she said. "Your back. You were favoring it when you walked."
"Just a bruise," I said, rolling my shoulder. "Hit the crossbar."
"Let me see," she commanded.
"Imogen, it's fine. I just need to shower and—"
"Take it off," she interrupted.
She walked toward me. Her eyes were determined.
"You take care of me," she said, stopping in front of me. "You fix my schedule. You feed me. You stand between me and the creeps. Let me do this. Let me help."
I looked down at her. I was so tired. I was so sore. And I wanted her so badly it felt like another injury.
"Okay," I whispered.
I reached for the hem of my Henley. I groaned as I lifted my arms, the muscles in my back protesting.
"Stop," she said, batting my hands away. "I've got it."
She grabbed the hem of the shirt. She lifted it slowly. Her fingers brushed the skin of my stomach, cool and electric. She pulled the shirt over my head, tossing it onto the floor.
I stood there, half-naked in the dim light of the hallway.
She sucked in a breath.
I looked down. I knew what she was seeing. The tattoos on my arm. The scars from old games. And the fresh, angry purple bruise blossoming across my ribs and lower back.
"Oh my god," she whispered. She reached out, tracing the edge of the bruise with a feather-light touch. "Max. That looks... angry."
"It's just blood under the skin," I said, my voice rough. "It'll fade."
"Turn around," she ordered.
I turned.
I heard her gasp again. The bruise from the crossbar was probably worse. A straight line of trauma across my shoulder blades.
"Sit," she said. "Sit on the sofa. I'm getting the arnica and the ice."
I obeyed. I didn't have the energy to argue. I sat on the leather couch, leaning forward, resting my elbows on my knees.
She came back a minute later with a jar of cream and an ice pack wrapped in a towel.
"Lean back," she said.
I leaned back.
She knelt on the couch behind me. Her legs straddled my hips, her knees pressing into the leather on either side of me.
It was an innocent position for medical attention.
It didn't feel innocent.
She opened the jar. The smell of menthol and herbs filled the air.
"This is going to be cold," she warned.
She put her hands on my back.
I hissed through my teeth. Not from pain, but from the sensation. Her hands were slippery with the cream. She started to rub it into the bruise.
"Sorry," she whispered. "Is that too hard?"
"No," I gritted out. "It's... good."
It was torture.
She worked the cream into the muscle. Her thumbs dug into the knots in my shoulders. She had surprisingly strong hands for an artist.
"You carry so much tension," she murmured, her breath ghosting against the back of my neck. "You're like a coiled spring."
"Nature of the job," I said. My eyes drifted shut. The headache was receding, replaced by a different kind of thrumming.
She moved lower. Down my spine. To the bruise on my ribs.
Her hands slid around my torso to reach the front. Her chest pressed against my back. I could feel the softness of her breasts through the thin fabric of the jersey.
I stopped breathing.
Her hands splayed over my abs, rubbing the cream into the sore spots. Her fingers dipped lower, dangerously close to the waistband of my jeans.
"Imogen," I warned, my voice a low growl.
"Relax," she whispered in my ear. She bit my earlobe lightly. "I'm just taking care of you."
"You're playing with fire," I said.
"I like fire," she replied.
She moved her hands up my chest, over my pecs, to my neck. She massaged the base of my skull, exactly where the headache lived.
"Better?" she asked.
"Yes," I lied. It wasn't better. I was hard. Painfully hard. The friction of the denim was excruciating.
She leaned around me, looking into my face. Our noses brushed.
"You look tired," she said softly.
"I am," I admitted. "I'm tired of fighting it, Imogen."
"Then don't," she whispered.
She straddled my lap properly now, facing me. The jersey rode up. Her bare legs were smooth and warm against my jeans.
"We have a deal," I reminded her, gripping her hips. My thumbs dug into her flesh. "No distractions."
"The game is over," she argued. "We won. You're hurt. We're home."
She ran her hands through my hair, careful of the bump. She looked at me with such open, naked desire that it stole the breath from my lungs.
"You saved me," she said. "From the gala. From my dad. From failing. Let me save you tonight."
"I don't need saving," I said.
"Everyone needs saving," she corrected. "Even the Warden."
She leaned in and kissed me.
It was slow. Gentle. A question.
I answered it.
I opened my mouth, inviting her in. I tasted her. She tasted like peppermint and victory.
I groaned, giving up. I wrapped my arms around her, pulling her flush against my chest. Skin on jersey. Hardness on softness.
We kissed for a long time. Deep, languid kisses that drugged me. My hands roamed her back, her waist, her thighs.
She pulled back, breathing heavily. Her lips were swollen. Her eyes were blown wide.
"Take it off," I said, looking at the jersey.
"I thought you liked it," she teased breathlessly.
"I do," I said. "But I like what's underneath it better."
She smiled. She grabbed the hem of the jersey.
Slowly, agonizingly slowly, she lifted it.
Her stomach appeared. Then the lace of her black bra. Then her throat.
She pulled it over her head and tossed it onto the floor next to my shirt.
She sat there in my lap, in nothing but black lace and leggings. Her skin was pale in the moonlight filtering through the window. She was beautiful.
I reached out and traced the edge of her bra cup. Her nipple peaked instantly against the lace.
"Beautiful," I whispered.
"Max," she whimpered, arching into my hand.
"I want to see you," I said. "All of you."
I reached around her back and unclasped the bra. It fell away.
I stared.
"Perfect," I breathed.
I leaned forward and took her into my mouth.
She cried out, her head falling back, her hands gripping my hair.
"Max... oh god..."
I swirled my tongue around her nipple, biting lightly. I felt her muscles clench around me.
I moved to the other one, giving it equal attention. I was thorough. I was methodical. I was worshipping her.
She started to grind against me. The friction was maddening.
"Bedroom," I growled against her skin.
"Yes," she gasped. "Bed. Now."
I stood up, lifting her with me. She wrapped her legs around my waist. I winced as the movement pulled at my back, but the pain was distant, irrelevant.
I carried her down the hall to my room. The sanctuary.
I kicked the door open. It banged against the wall.
I walked to the bed—the pristine, grey, perfectly made bed—and laid her down in the center of it.
She looked up at me, her hair fanned out on the pillow, her chest heaving. She looked like a sacrifice. She looked like a queen.
I stood at the edge of the bed and unbuttoned my jeans. I shoved them down, kicking them off.
I climbed onto the bed, crawling over her. I braced my arms on either side of her head, caging her.
"Last chance," I said, my voice rough. "Tell me to stop, Imogen. Because once I start... I'm not stopping."
She reached up and cupped my face. Her thumb brushed my lip.
"Don't you dare stop," she whispered. "Show me. Show me what happens when you lose control."
I looked down at her.
"I'm not losing control," I promised, leaning down to kiss her throat. "I'm taking it."
And then, I blew the whistle.
Game on.